Elegy
by Meduse
Summary: After a traumatizing ordeal in the Fade that leaves her in shambles, Lady Cousland gets her head set straight about life, loss and love. Enlightment comes from the most unlikely source.


_Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Dragon Age franchise._

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Elegy

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She awoke to the sight of an imposing fortress towering high above her head. Weathered walls that seemed to be centuries old confined her securely within their long shadows, massive towers of foreign architecture scraped an amber sky and grim looking statues of majestic griffons stared down at where she stood. A tiny, insignificant being creeping around the very birthplace of legend. Her eyes warily followed the path laid out in front of her.

Where was she?

Cautiously she took a step forward and flinched at the ghostly sound that echoed within the ancient halls of the fortress. She hesitated, but her mind found it difficult to focus. Should the impact of leather and stone not be almost inaudible? Had she not honed her skill of silent movement in the past... past days…and…months…? The thought drifted away from her like a wandering cloud and she touched her forehead lightly.

There were all these images inside her, fuzzy and full of…_blood_? What? Cool, fresh air filled her lungs, a gentle breeze played with her soft, soft hair. No, she was at peace. Everything was just as it should be.

But how had she come here? This wasn't her home, it wasn't Highever Castle. Whatever it was. She registered a faint flicker at the corners of her field of vision, but her drowsiness dimmed every doubt. There was something inside her _urging_ her to go on and…complete her task.

_Which_ task? What was she to do?

She climbed the seemingly endless steps of the fortress before her, taking in the sights around her with wide eyes. There was something infinitely majestic and awe-inspiring about the architecture, but somehow certain details seemed …off. Blurry, incomplete. Mashed up.

Did that even make any sense? She _felt_ the stone under her feet. It was solid and cold.

Shock went through her body, when she finally reached the topmost step. A ghost? A distant memory? Reality? Confusion, rage and raw hurt crashed down upon her.

"Duncan?" She whispered so quietly, she had trouble hearing her own voice.

The dark, regal man before her gave her a gentle smile. "Ah, there you are, Ceridwen. I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

Ceridwen was surprised at the intense hostility that immediately reared its head in the midst of her chaotic thoughts.

'Fiend', her insides screamed. 'Murderer.'

"Yes, you are." She hissed, clutching the bow in her hand so tightly that her knuckles turned white. For a split-second, she wanted nothing more than to shoot him down like deer for what he had_ done _to her. What he had _driven_ her to _do_. But…that didn't make any sense. Slowly, very slowly she lowered her bow. Duncan was her commander. Because she had joined the legendary Grey Wardens in order to protect...Ferelden. It had been such a happy day when she had volunteered to join and he had taken her in. _No_, a distant voice in her head protested fiercely, she had _never_; she had _hated_….but Duncan was such a good man. He had fought so bravely and gloriously in the battle of...

The battle of…

"Wait…" Ceridwen backed away from him, pushing back all her irrational rage. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "You should be dead."

"Dead? Me?" Duncan let out a hearty laugh, free and infectious. This was not right. He was- _had_ not _been_ that kind of man. Someone was tricking her. Sorcery? It seemed plausible, but…

"I have been close many times, but I never quite made it all the way."

Ceridwen scoffed, crossing her arms tightly in front of her body. "And such a shame it is." She drawled icily.

Duncan ignored her animosity and went on. A smiling idol of utter peacefulness. Wrong. _False_.

"I just wanted to make sure you were happy here, in Weisshaupt. These grand halls were built by the first Grey Wardens. Isn't it breathtaking?"

"So you are an expert on architecture, too? Isn't that rich." Her tone went from icy to cutting. "Why are we here when we should be battling darkspawn?"

She could scarcely recall, but wasn't that her _cause_, after all?

"The darkspawn are gone, remember? You were there in that last great battle." said Duncan. "It was a triumph for all of us, bringing down the archdemon and setting the underground lairs ablaze. For the first time in centuries, there is peace throughout Thedas, people of all nations rejoice. His majesty, the king even ordered for a grand ceremony in the capital to honor the Grey Wardens. You were there alongside me and all the others."

Ceridwen frowned as he continued his joyful ramblings, because the word 'battle' had triggered something. She _remembered_ a _battle_ and blood, dear Maker, so much _blood_. Soaked deep into her armor, her hair, her skin, dark and foul and so corrupted by the taint. Flames and death, piercing cries and corpses piling up high.

A dead king. An arrow piercing open her chest.

And yet there were these other pictures in her mind, images of darkspawn roasting in a fire brighter than the pyre of their prophet Andraste, an…archdemon falling to the mighty blade of…someone. Victory chants and celebration. And…and…then…how did she get _here_? Weisshaupt in the grim north? The Anderfels was thousands of miles away.

'How else then, than by magic?' She mused idly. And froze, because the clouds in her minded allowed one split-second of absolute clarity.

_Magic. Tower .Abominations. Demons._

_The Fade. _

Ceridwen's entire body went rigid with shock. All-consuming horror rushed through her veins and caused her heart to leap into her throat. Nightmarish monsters from stories told to children in the flickering gleam of a dying fire arose before her, lessons and warnings, often retold and spoken in Mother Mallol's voice drowned the sound of everything else. She had no place to be awake in this unholy world of dreams, the nest of all things demon. She did not bear the Maker's curse. She was no _mage! _

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter." she muttered frantically, before she could help herself. "Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood…."

"What did you say?" Duncan, no, the _demon_ interrupted her sharply. His shape flickered for the shortest of moments, as though the evil beneath his surface repelled at the holy words she recited. The trembling that his voice sent through her body brought her back to her senses and she fought her panic down. This was not the time to submit to the ancient fear of the Fade that the Chantry had instilled in her.

What else was the Fade other than a grand realm of deception and lies? She knew of deception. And she had already faced abominations and _vanquished_ them.

"I simply do wonder." Ceridwen replied lightly, drawing back just a little further from the demon as she assumed a wistful expression. "Now that the darkspawn are finally eradicated… what shall the Grey Wardens do?"

The creature's bearing calmed. "The Grey Wardens shall be keepers of history. We shall tell tales and sing songs of a more tumultuous time, that others may rejoice knowing that time has passed."

The sudden and bizarre visual of grizzled Grey Warden Commander Duncan _singing_ forced itself so urgently inside her mind that all her attempts to subtly redraw her bow instantly fell flat.

"We shall sing songs? _Seriously_?" Ceridwen blurted out, blinking at the demon. "_That's_ the best you can do?"

"Does that not satisfy you, child?" He- or rather _it_ – purred soothingly. Fade Duncan reached out and laid a gloved hand on her shoulder. She restrained herself from reacting to the touch. The irony was laughable, really. She, a _tainted_ creature, repulsed by the touch of one of the Maker's accursed children.

"Yes, I see it now…there is such sadness in you. So much _longing_." Fade Duncan gave her a gentle smile. "Rejoice, Ceridwen. The world is at peace at last and it shall go on without you. Your task is done. You can return home."

A breath hitched in her throat. "_Home_?"

Fade Duncan drew back and nodded at her. "You have joined the order to help stop the Blight. The darkspawn are gone and the Grey Wardens are no longer needed. You have done well, Ceridwen. Your family awaits you. They have missed you all so much."

The might of the complete and utter yearning, that immediately enveloped her, surprised even her. Her knees felt weak.

"You can do that?" Her voice was a shaky as a dancing leaf in a thunderstorm.

"Yes, child. All you need to do is…_let_ me."

There had to be a special eternally burning place in the Fade for her to even consider this. But the arm she needed to lift her weapon with suddenly felt like a lead weight. The demon offered her illusions and lies, pale shadows of reality, she was well aware. It would never be the real thing.

_But why not? _

She was weary of this life that had been forced upon her, so weary of the nightmares in the dark of night and the carnage that had become her every day.

And she wanted her family _back_ so badly.

Her arm bucked forward, nails digging into Fade Duncan's leathered gloves.

"Take me there. _Please_."

All that had been her current reality blurred in front of eyes, washing away in a twirl of paling colors and swirling lights. An otherworldly voice rang in her ears.

"_As you wish."_

_.  
_

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The first thing she registered was the steady sound of the Waking Sea's rushing waves. It was so soothingly familiar that it made her heart ache. Slowly, Ceridwen opened her eyes.

_Home_.

It hit her hard. The demon had truly outdone itself. Standing high above, Ceridwen stared at the landscape, her eyes greedily taking it all in. There was the rocky coastline, a strong and proud bulwark amidst the crashing waves of the sea. There was the light grey sky with thick, patchy clouds that came from far beyond the horizon. There were the soft green meadows, the hills she and her brother had climbed in her youth, the outline of the forest she had scouted countless times during her training in the arts of a ranger. And there, from the high point at which she stood, she looked down on the city of Highever. The sounds, the sights, the scents…ashes and embers from the smithy, the smell of food and bakery, dog fur, alcohol from the taverns, the stench of excrements, sweat and dirt and so much more, all of them mixed with the salty air of the sea.

Exactly as she remembered it. There were no disturbances to be found, no blurriness and no twisted details. Her memories of Highever were so intense, so filled with _longing_. It must have been wonderful prey for the demon.

She turned around and her heart started to pick up a pace that the rest of her body could hardly keep up with.

Castle Highever. In all her ancient, unyielding glory, overlooking her lands.

Too many memories flooded her mind at once, most as gruesome as others were beautiful. Once again, she felt as if her knees might give away any second, but she stayed upright, all muscles of her body tense. She wanted to cry, but it seemed all her tears had been shed in the dreary nights on the road from Highever to Ostagar. After that fateful battle, there had been time for grief no more and now…perhaps she had forgotten how to cry. It was all locked up inside, a seal not even she could break open.

Her eyes full and spellbound by the waving laurel flag of the House Cousland, she climbed the stony path that lead up to the castle. Ceridwen was faintly aware that her bloody, scratched armor of unknown make had been replaced with the fine, embroidered and engraved leather that bore her house's crest and that she had always worn when going out to hunt in the woods. When Howe attacked, she had only had the time to strap on the harness and a pair of unarmored breeches. The harness had been penetrated beyond repair by arrows at the top of the tower of Ishal and the remaining pieces of the armor had likely burned in the fires that had consumed her home.

But her dress wasn't the only change.

She raised her pale, pale right hand and touched her face, so clean and full once more. Dark brown curls flowed down freely up to her waist, instead of merely passing past her shoulders, smooth and free of dirt. Ceridwen had been a vain young woman and despite everything, she still was. Life on the road had been unkind to her appearance. It felt better than it should to …be herself again, if only in illusion. The delicate, beautiful teyrn's daughter of the north.

As she reached the gates of her castle, her sight clouded over once more for the shortest of moments. And then she heard the voice that she had yearned to hear for so long.

"Ceridwen, my dear girl! You are back!"

Her heart set out for a heartbeat, overflowing with sorrow, pain and happiness. Her bow clattered on the paved ground as she rushed forwards to embrace the figure of her father, who stood in front of a small compound of guards. He was there in her grasp, clad in his finest clothes (she remembered the day her mother had sent for a personal tailor, because she just couldn't take her husband's preference for unappealing, practical clothing anymore) and _alive_. Alive, alive, alive, with that twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face.

"Father!" she choked out, holding on to him for dear life. "I…I missed you so _much_."

"I know, pup. We missed you, too." Her father, no, she wouldn't regard him as anything else, despite all better judgment, said and stroke softly over her hair. Ceridwen shivered. Since that night, nobody had held her so dear anymore. She was not the most agreeable person; she spoke cynical words that _hurt_ others, she took her superiority over others for granted, too proud of her high born heritage and extensive education for her own good, but her family had _always_ loved her. Had always been her safe haven.

Was family not all that mattered to nobility?

When hers had been ripped away from her, she had been _nothing_. A void shell instead of a human being. Good only for killing darkspawn, in blood, blood, blood. She hadn't belonged in this strange, almost foreign common man's world and no noble would have ever given her the time of the day again. A never-ending nightmare.

Who said _this_ wasn't real?

Her father released her from his grasp and looked at her. Oh, she remembered those light blue eyes, so kind and forgiving towards his family, so firm and decisive in the face of his lesser. She had inherited his eyes, if not his congenialness.

"But now you are back and we won't part from each other again. Come, pup, your mother and your brother are waiting for you in the courtyard. But no tall tales about the men's hygiene in the army camp." He wiggled his finger at her as if to reprehend her. "Your nephew might just pick up on it and then Oriana will get Fergus into serious trouble. Not to mention that your mother will have my head for allowing her only daughter to be corrupted so. I do not know which she wields fiercer, her tongue or her sword."

She smiled broadly at him, because she _wanted_ to _smile._ At the humorous tone of his voice, at the quirks of their family life, at it all. That's what she would have done. Before she had seen him bleed on the floor, her mother by his side, sacrificing her life to defend him and allow their daughter to live.

Ceridwen shook herself and followed him.

They passed through the gates and she nodded at the guards at their posts. She remembered their faces, if not their names. Maybe they had been the ones to guard the gates during the siege. Maybe they had been the first to die.

"Good day." she said hoarsely as she passed them by.

The guards appeared surprised.

"G…good day, milady." One of them stuttered. He exchanged a look with the other guard that clearly screamed discomfort. Ceridwen paused. Was it so remarkable for her to greet a guard, a common man?

They reached the castle's courtyard and she reveled in the sight of a reawakened Highever. There were a couple of her father's knights entertaining wide-eyed, young lads that had only just become squires, guards who straightened up as soon as they passed them by, only to go back to talking afterwards, servants bustling all around, both human and elven. A thoughtful expression crossed Ceridwen's face as she regarded one of the elven wash maidens respectfully bowing, before scrambling away with her head held low. Why did Old Nan always call them 'them blasted knife-ears'? Their lives were often so full of sorrow and spite.

And where had _that_ come from?

"Oh, leave me alone, you silly thing, I need to be on my way. Now, now, don't be hysterical, you've done well. "

Ceridwen's throat tightened as she heard the all-too familiar nagging voice of her mother. Her father led her around a corner and she came to see the teyrna chiding one of her newer housekeepers, a young woman with wide, glistening eyes and a flaming red face. The poor servant seemed to be close to tears. Behind them, Ceridwen spied her brother and his wife, both trying to keep their amusement at bay.

Her mother turned to her left.

"Ser Gilmore, take care of the poor dear, will you? I cannot stand to be delayed any longer."

"Of course, milady. I shall lead her away." The red-haired knight, who had fought so bravely to defend the gates in order to save her mother and her, stepped into Ceridwen's view. He laid a hand on the housekeeper's shoulder and guided her gently towards the servants' quarters. "Come now, this way…"

"Ah, blessed, Ser Gilmore, blessed!" The teyrna called after him. Ceridwen averted her eyes. It was the exact same thing her mother had said, when they had bid their last farewell to the knight and it brought back even more unpleasant memories. She should have treated Gilmore better, while she had the chance. He had come into her father's service when they were both still almost children and she had loved to order him about at will. This attitude had …stuck, when they grew older, even though he had come to be a knight. And yet he had sacrificed himself for the Couslands. Including her.

"Now, where is my daughter?!"

"Slow, mother, slow. You will drive her back to the battlefield, if you braze through the castle like the archdemon itself. I hear that darkspawn are a less fearsome sight to behold than you when you when you're in that mood." Ceridwen heard Fergus tease her mother.

'_They are far more fearsome. _'She thought, flashes of the monstrosities she had seen in the Deep Roads pushing to the forefront of her mind. Emissaries and Ogres. Ghouls. The broodmother. _'Infinitely more.'_

But these memories could not be true anymore. _This_ was. She needed it to be true.

"Careful, young man, you may be grown, but I am still your mother. Oh, the Maker had to curse me with a two children who are too cheeky for their own good. You have my condolences, Oriana, dear." The teyrna replied with good-natured exasperation, before turning around to where Ceridwen stood. Instantly, her face brightened considerably.

"Ceridwen!"

"Mother…. Fergus…."

Her mother lifted the seam of her dark burgundy dress and hurried over to her, as graceful and yet determined as she had always been. Fergus and his family followed in tow.

"And she turns up out of nowhere at exactly the right moment, as always." Her brother laughed with a deep, rumbling sound. "One of these days, you will have to teach me how you do that, little sister."

Ceridwen wanted to remind him that he was far too much of a clunky warrior oaf, as she always had, when he would tease her about the rather roguish skills she had honed during her training, but the words died on her lips. If she _had_ taught him how to deter attention, would Fergus have evaded the darkspawn when he scouted the Korcari Wilds with his men? Would he still live?

But then her mother's arms were around her and all conscious thought shut down. The scent of expensive Orlesian perfume tickled her nose and it brought back so many kind memories. Her mother was as Fereldan as could be, but she had always had a great appreciation of fine things.

"Oh, my dear girl, I am so proud of you." The teyrna said and Ceridwen wished for the dried up tears behind her eyes to finally flow. "But if you had kept me stirring here without notice about your well-being any longer, I swear, I would have hunted you down myself, darkspawn or no."

"Yes, mother was all but ready to claw our eyes out when father and I returned from Ostagar without you, sister." Fergus chimed in from behind and Ceridwen pulled away from her mother's embrace to look at him. "We told her you were called away for the Warden's celebration, but you know how mother gets."

"Oh, Fergus!" Her lower lip trembled at his sight. She had been in charge of the castle that night. She should have protected his family. She should have searched for him in the Wilds. Forcefully, she threw arms around him. "Brother!"

"Ho, ho, who are you and what have you done with my prickly, little sister?" Fergus exclaimed in surprise. Almost uncertain of his movements, he clapped her lightly on the back. Suddenly, he pushed her back at arm-length. "You don't have any needles on you, do you? And one of your Maker-damned poisons? Trying to get me to embarrass myself again in front of everyone?"

She swatted him lightly across the chest, swallowing the huge lump that had formed inside her throat.

"No, you fool. I am just so happy to see you, is all."

"Nah, I am not buying into that. You are up to something, as always." Fergus narrowed his eyes at her in suspicion, but then his expression relaxed and he gave her a warm smile. "Hey. It's good to have you back."

"I am overjoyed to see you alive and well, sister." His wife Oriana finally made her presence known, her voice meek and kind as she had always been. She took Ceridwen's hands into her own and the younger woman felt a cold shiver run down her spine.

"The Maker has heard our prayers. He led you to protect our lands and our homes."

'There was a gaping hole in your chest, right there.' Ceridwen thought, despite the brilliant smile she kept plastered on her face. 'And your blood was still warm as it ran over the floor.'

"Indeed, He…" No, she could not tell that simple lie. Not to a dead woman's face."…His ways are mysterious."

"True." Oriana smiled. "And yet I am grateful-"

"Auntie, Auntie!" Little Oren interjected, stepping out of his father's shadow. He hopped over to her and tugged at her right glove. As much as it pained her to see him bright and lively again, she was thankful for the distraction. "Did you fight many monsters? Did you become a hero?"

"I…fought, yes." _'And killed. So many. It's the only thing I know how to do, anymore.'_

Oren looked at her with those wide, innocent, awe-struck eyes. He was so young. So naïve.

Dead far before his prime.

"And did you bring me back a sword, Auntie? Father said, I would see one up close _reeeaal_ soon, but I haven't! Father is a liar, he is!"

"I…you…" She tried to compose herself, but failed. Was it her own subconscious that created this world and this…torment? Or was it all the demon's game? With an abrupt movement, she turned her head inside, long, _impractical_, curls falling in front of her eyes.

"I'm sorry, mother and father, but I think the journey made me very tired. If you will allow me to go…to my room, I would…"

"But Auntie! What about my sword?" Oren all but wailed next to her. His mother pulled him over by his hand, a stern look on her face. "Shh, Oren. Your aunt has been through much. Let her rest." The small boy nodded with a disappointed pout.

The teyrn looked at Ceridwen. "Ah, of course, pup. I should have thought of that. Here we are standing about, rambling on like fishwives and you must be dying to retire for a bit. Go to your quarters and refresh. We will see you soon, I hope. Don't let us wait till tonight at dinner." He smiled at her again. "I told you that Couslands always fulfill their duty. You have made us so proud."

Another piece of her heart shattered into thousand little shards. '_I haven't fulfilled my duty. I came back to an illusion of you. Because I can't let you go. Not even in death._

Ceridwen nodded choppily, overcome with emotion. But she did love them _so much._

"And change into something more comfortable, dear." Her mother smiled and shook her head with slight annoyance. "It is dreadful enough that I cannot convince your brother to dress into more fitting clothes. He seems to think it fit to parade around as if we were still at war. Thank the Maker, I have a daughter."

"Will do, mother," she replied, her voice slightly choked. "Will do."

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There was a shorter route to her private chamber, but right now she could not be bothered to try it. As softly as only a ghost might, Ceridwen treaded through the castle's paths, her eyes full and wide. It was truly Highever. She recognized the sounds and smells, the people that passed her by, the respectful curtsies and bows, the Cousland banners all around her. There was laughter and shouts and young squires chasing through the lanes, trying to avoid the kitchen staff from whom they had just snagged small treats. Her home bustling with life once more.

So normal and…_carefree_. She had forgotten that life could be like this.

The sound of heavy steps echoed behind her and her body tensed immediately. Her gaze swept through the alley she currently found herself in. No good angles for keeping a swordsman at bay. But if she used the old well in the centre of the court…

"M-"

Ceridwen whirled around before the intruder had had the chance to close up to her, drawing her bow in one smooth movement. Forcefully, she pulled back the string, quickly assessing the strength of armory presented to her. It was only when she found her arrow pointing at Ser Gilmore's stunned face that conscious thought set back in.

"Gilmore?" she blinked. The young knight coughed, taking a step back.

"Indeed, milady. I…merely wished to express my joy for your safe return and admiration for your astounding feats on the battlefield. I apologize deeply for disturbing you."

"No, no, don't apologize!" Ceridwen all but blurted out. Embarrassed, she quickly let her bow sink. "I should be sorry for… I guess I am still a little jumpy."

And now she was apologizing to a knight in her service. _Lovely_.

She shrugged the thought away, a wry smile on her face.

"You never know when one of them darkspawn just sneaks up on you, right? They come from underground, you see, and…well. "She fumbled for words. "No _wonder_, really, with those ugly visages of theirs; I'd probably stay underground most of my day, too."

Ser Gilmore gave her a blank look. "I …see, milady."

She averted her eyes, annoyed by her own foolishness. _This_ Ser Gilmore had never seen a darkspawn in his entire life. He had never spent day after day (or was it night after night?) in abandoned, taint infested dwarven thaigs with only a golem, a drunk dwarf and a blabbering junior Grey Warden to talk to. Never found weak cracks like this one crucial in order to find the strength to _keep going deeper_.

"From what the returning soldiers have told us, I hear that Ostagar has been a glorious triumph for all of mankind. I confess, I had hoped to fight for Ferelden as well, milady, but to see the teyrn and you safe and sound is gratification enough for me. Please accept my congratulations." Gilmore bowed his head respectfully.

'_You should have been there. It should have been your fight, your chance to prove yourself.'_ Ceridwen thought. '_You had all those dreams and ambitions and I…I brushed them aside.'_

She hadn't even bothered to tell Ser Gilmore that Duncan had come for him that day. Because she had not cared for glory and ancient orders of formidable warriors and it had annoyed her to be pestered about it by a mere knight.

Would he have survived the Joining and…Ostagar, had Duncan recruited him? Somehow Ceridwen had a hard time picturing the knight in calm conversation with Flemeth, the ancient Witch of the Wilds, or dealing with Morrigan in all her dangerous, exotic sensuality, or enduring the constant chattering of his fellow Grey Warden. And then she felt shame claim her.

For all his blandness, Gilmore was brave, loyal and good and he would have made a better Grey Warden than her. By far.

To begin with, he would not have _abandoned_ thousands of lives dependent on him for a mere illusion of home conjured up by a _demon_. Her insides churned at the thought.

"I…thank you, Gilmore. _Ser_ Gilmore. Now, if…if you would just excuse me…"

Not waiting for his reply, Ceridwen brushed past the knight. Thoughts and suppressed guilt were swirling in her mind. Not that it was not hard enough already, to keep hanging to a consistent thought in the Fade, but the demon seemed reassured that she would not try to escape and had given her leeway for thought since she had bid the illusion of Duncan farewell. How very reassuring.

She reached the path way to the dining hall, the very same one where she had taken her last meal with her family, before going to bed and… be awakened by Howe's treachery. As she approached, she felt servants and kitchen staff _materialize_ to busy them in the hall. Because she _expected_ servants to do so, before a great dinner in honor of a returning teyrn's daughter. The demon happily indulged her.

Despite herself, she entered the hall, lingering just a moment in the doorway. Yes, there were the thick, green carpet, the three long tables set for far many people and the wall carpets with Ferelden's heraldy artfully woven in. The all too familiar portraits on the walls staring down on those seated at the tables.

Ceridwen remembered her mentor Aldous taking her around the castle, pointing at the paintings and lecturing about the great deeds of her ancestors, never catching on that she had long since sated her curiosity about their history on her own. He had been so terribly tiresome and yet she had let him have his satisfaction of 'teaching' the mindless youth, because it had made him docile enough.

The portrait closest to her left caught her attention. A young, pale maiden with dark hair and eyes that pierced through her with a defiant blaze. An early painting of Elethea Cousland, the same one who had later fought a fierce battle with King Calenhad in order to retain Highever's independence. A brazen woman, if the stories were true, but wise enough to accept defeat honorably. By swearing fealty and resigning her _independence_, she had spared her teyrnir from forceful overtaking and more deaths to come. The colors of the almost ancient painting were fading, but the startling intensity of her eyes had remained to this day.

With slight discomfort, Ceridwen walked past her famed ancestress, her gaze trailing over teyrns and teyrnas of the past, some in heavy armor, some in the courtly fashion of the time. She had always found it curious just how many Elissa Couslands there had been before her. In truth, her father had been all but willing to continue the tradition of the name with her, but her mother had been very much opposed to raising Elissa the thirty-fourth. Whether they had dug up her name in her mother's line of ancestors or her father's line, Ceridwen could not tell, but she would not put it past her mother to pour over family trees for days on end just to find a halfway unique name for her daughter.

She stopped shortly when she beheld a modern interpretation of Sarim Cousland, the oldest Cousland ancestor known to her. There were certainly records of his lineage to be found somewhere deep in the archives, but they were of interest only for true scholars. Sarim Cousland had been Bann Elstan Conobar's captain of the guard and had inherited the Bann's lands after the Flemeth of legend had slain Conobar.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Ceridwen's lips. How curious that she should have been saved from certain death by the very same witch who had indirectly pushed her family into nobility.

_Saved to lose herself in the Fade?_

She came to end her walk in front of the two oldest authentic paintings to be found at the far back of the hall. They were from the Black Age and almost completely destroyed, but she knew perfectly well whom they had once portrayed. Haelia and Mather Cousland. One of them, she had always disagreed with Aldous' on which one, had been the one to make Highever a teyrnir. By gathering the lords of their lands under the Cousland banner in order to drive out the werewolf plague of the time. Displaying formidable leadership and wisdom that lifted them above all other lords.

Her grip tightened around her bow. _Unifying the land, driving out the…Blight. _

And finally she came face to face with the very painting that was exchanged in each generation of the teyrnir.

The family portrait.

Mother, father, Fergus, Oriana with baby Oren and _her_, a flimsy thing of fourteen years in a long, dark blue dress of fine velvet. There had been another portrait once, one without Oriana, showing her as small child and Fergus as a growing lad, but mother had insisted to have their likeness retaken after Oren's birth.

Ceridwen studied their faces with glistening eyes, even if her tears were still held back. She had been so relieved, so deliriously happy to _see_ them again in the _flesh_.

But this painting was the true face of what had been left of her family. A _memory_. An _attempt_ at capturing the moment.

Her fourteen-year-old self looked down at her haughtily, standing erect and perfectly still like a doll in her fine garments. So concerned about grace and living up to her noble heritage. Ceridwen had been pleased with the result when the artist had revealed his masterpiece to them, but looking back at the unpretentious strength in her ancestress Elethea's face, at the simple nobility that came from duty and service rather than standing in the faces around her, it seemed laughable.

This poor, foolish girl was _all_ that was left of the Couslands?

Back in Orzammar, the dwarves had displayed a reverence for their ancestors that had felt disturbing even to _her_, who had always taken great pride in her lineage. She lowered her gaze, regarding the Cousland heraldry etched into the curving of her bow. Perhaps it was wiser than she had thought to look back at your roots for something other than determining how big of a fish you were in the pond.

If only to find in the glory of the past a reason to _keep fighting_ for the future.

"Back from the battlefield and not a single word of greeting to the old woman who put up with such an insolent child as you for so long?" A woman suddenly called brazenly from behind her back. "_Heroes_. I knew that whole fighting thing could only blow your head up in size some more."

Ceridwen whirled around. "Old Nan…"

"That's right, milady."A badly concealed smile graced the wrinkly face of the bold woman who had been almost a grandmother to her. "Now come here, so I can nag you for keeping me and your mother worried."

She automatically made step forward, but halted her movement.

"No." Ceridwen said. "_No_."

_No memories._

Struggling to keep her head held high, she strode out of the dining hall past the demon wearing Old Nan's face and out into the fake, bright light of a sun that existed only inside her mind.

.

* * *

.

The door shut behind her with a loud, thumping sound.

Ceridwen pressed her back against the closed door of her room and slid unceremoniously down to the ground, throwing her bow away from her. It was not proper behavior to cower on the floor, no. But she had been knee-deep in _worse_. The back of her head banged against the wood behind her.

How could she have so diminished the meaning of the blood given in order to save her?

How could she have besmirched the memory and _sacrifice_ of her dead family by allowing demons to wear their faces? How could she have thought to _replace _them?

Her gaze wandered through the room and she felt like the most despicable human being in existence. Everything looked exactly as she remembered it, a wonderfully pretty façade of times when she had been happy. From the carved furniture, the patterned carpets, the paintings on the walls to the basket for her faithful marbari.

She flinched at the thought. _Cahan_. Her dog was the only one she had had left after the massacre at Highever, her best friend since childhood. But she had abandoned him now, simple as that. Left him to die in a world taken by the darkspawn taint together with all the others.

Ceridwen raked a hand through her hair. How many nights had she yearned to come back? To find everything the way it should be, a world without Howe's treachery? Every single night? Every single waking moment?

She gave a bitter laugh. "Well, here I am at last," she said to the quiet of the chamber.

"Was it _worth_ it?"

_Yes. No_. _I don't know. _

And if she were to go back…how would she do it? Stretching her neck to relieve some tension, Ceridwen stood and looked around, subconsciously brushing one of her irritatingly long curls out of her eyes. Her knowledge of the Fade did not extend beyond what the Chantry preached and a sure way to get on Morrigan's bad side was to begin talk of demons and the dangerous nature of mages. No one wanted _that_.

Slaying the demon that had trapped her here did seem a pretty convincing option, though. It was possible to kill in the Fade, was it not? The tranquil mage in Ostagar had talked of it and it was the sort of thing that fanciful stories about templars basically consisted of.

Unfortunately, that left the question how to lure the demon out of hiding behind another's face. Which, in return, left _her_ nothing but to follow the one plan she applied to almost every situation in life. The only plan for everyone who, like her, lacked impressive skill in full-out combat.

Play along and strike when your opponent slips up.

Ceridwen walked over to the armoire at the far back of her room and opened its doors. A multitude of fine dresses welcomed her. Fine silk with silver and gold threads, floral patterns and glittering gems. She let her fingers glide over them. Had she really had so many?

Her hands grabbed one of the blue dresses almost of their own accord. A pretty thing with silvery borders and delicate floral embroidery. She had always liked the color, because it complimented her eyes. It had mattered to her once upon a time, indeed.

She sneaked a glance at the mirror next to her bed and tried not to let her gaze linger, because it _hurt_. This woman right there was all she had ever longed to be. Beautiful. Powerful. Free of responsibility and most of all, _carefree_.

And yet, that wasn't enough.

She was a liar, not a traitor.

.

* * *

.

"Oh, there you are again, dear." Her… _mother_ greeted her as Ceridwen stepped into the Atrium. She earned an approving look for her garniture, which would be in a sense, gratifying, coming from someone with such a critical eye as she. If it wasn't a _demon_ complimenting her. Ceridwen felt like being picky like that.

"This color really brings out your eyes."

"Thank you, mother." She replied, trying both: appearing unsuspicious and yet avoiding direct eye contact. It was an illusion, yes, but such a well-crafted one. And now that she did not allow herself to be pulled in, her true memories shone through stronger than ever. There was blood on her mother's face. Running, red _blood_.

"Ah, my dear girl. A glorious hero of the fight against the Blight and a beautiful noble maiden at once. Why, I should think that there should be suitors chasing after you like rampant hens after a rooster on the next ball."

The brilliant smile plastered on her grew strained. _Delightful_. Of all the things to conjure up from her memory, the demon just had to grasp this _particularly_ pleasant one.

"How dear of you, mother."She said with a saccharine voice. "I have never longed for more than have my charms be compared to poultry."

Her mother had always been on the look out to make her daughter more…marriageable, as she had called it. Ceridwen had passed her twentieth day of birth just recently (and what a birthday it had been, she thought bitterly, marching relentlessly on the road from the Frostback Mountains to Lake Calenhad). She was not really yet an old spinster. However, the many offers she had received since her fourteenth birthday had decreased considerably during the following two years.

As a mother, the only fault the teyrna had found within her daughter was that her love for the hunt and her training as a ranger and a scout repelled suitors looking for a fine noble wife. Ceridwen did not doubt that it played a part for some of her potential suitors, but she was - _had been-_ hardly a battle-maiden before Howe besieged Highever. Instead of pining away to be a grand knight of the likes of this Ser Aveline who the Orlesians revered so much, she had been content to spend much of her time studying history, politics and courtly arts.

It had rather been her sharp tongue and condescending, sarcastic humor that had kept suitors from trying to woo her. Haughty and self-entitled, some had whispered behind her back. Prickly. Moody. Strange. She had always heard them and she had accepted that they were right a long time ago. Because she _was_ unwilling to marry below her station. Because she _was_ their superior. She had cared about heritageand opportunity, because that was the kind of world that she had been born in. They had all been so wonderfully hypocritical in this respect. None of _them_ had decided to court her because of her and not her father and the opportunities a marriage with her presented.

The teyrna made a dismissive wave of hand. "Oh do not be cross with me over this, my dear. You know what I mean. But since we're at it-"

"_Completely_ by chance, of course."

"- my dear friend Landra's son Dairren has returned from Ostagar unharmed and he's come with his mother to pay a formal visit tonight at dinner. But he has been seen studying in your grandfather's library at present. Now," She made a placating gesture. "I know, Landra has already tried to convince you to consider him and I know you've got it set into your head to die an old spinster, but I thought that maybe you could at least give the poor boy a second chance?"

Ceridwen thought for a moment. It all seemed eternities ago, but… she remembered Dairren. A surprisingly bright and literate fellow for a mere lower Bann's son. They had…talked about books and agreed to catch up once the war was over. Blood ran down the walls of the atrium in streams, creeping into her subconscious, as she tried to focus. Oh, she remembered. During the siege, they had found his mother dead in her chamber. Slaughtered for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. She doubted not that her son had shared her fate.

"Mother." She looked at the demon with mock exasperation."I'm back for what seems like mere minutes and you are already trying to get rid of me?"

The teyrna scoffed. "Don't be foolish. I am just saying that you are not getting younger and he seems a fine lad."

"He is a lower Bann's son, mother. Hardly suitable." Ceridwen said absent-mindedly, because her gaze had just fallen onto the very place where she had seen one of her father's guards, who had tried to shield her, beheaded by one powerful swing of the sword. His blood had splattered all over her face. It wasn't really the same, looking back on it after such occurrences had become a daily annoyance, was it?

"Dear, at this rate I am not sure that there is anyone _suitable_ for you out there."

A humorless smile quirked the curve of her lips upwards. Now _that_ was expected.

"I shall treasure that vote of confidence."

Her mother sighed. "What I mean is that most noblemen of high standing in Ferelden are already married and the rest of them, you refused."

"High standing? They got _nothing_ on father. Or _me_, really."

Ceridwen did not even really know why she argued. Was the blood on the walls just in her mind or did the demon react to the memories that resurfaced and shaped her surroundings accordingly? If the latter was true, could she use this to her advantage?

"Well, unless you find yourself a second king of Ferelden, I believe you will have to do with what we have at our disposal."

Ha! No, Ceridwen was not really thrilled by the idea of marrying 'King Loghain'. It seemed that this was the way Ferelden's new 'regent' was headed these days. A curious thing, indeed.

"I am sorry, mother. It may sound foolish to you, but I have never felt such… fondness that you try to instill in me. Of any arl's or bann's son or….anyone."

Faint confusion claimed her as she tried to keep the conversation going for the sake of observing the field. Was this true? It was sincere, as far as she knew, and yet she felt as though she was lying.

Was she?

The answer seemed…fuzzy.

"You are right, dear, it does sound foolish." Her mother gave a light chuckle. "But I have given up trying to talk you into anything you do not want to be. You've always had such a stubborn head on your shoulders. Just like your father."

The teyrna came to stand closely before her and cupped one side of her face with her hand. Ceridwen tried not to repel at the touch.

"I love you, my little girl. You know that, don't you?"

Her throat restricted she heard those words, shamelessly recited from her own memory. It was wrong. It was twisted, disgustingly twisted. That illusion, that demon, that creature it _defiled_ her mother's love!

_And you allowed this to happen. The blame is all on you._

"I…" She fumbled for words, as her mind was reeling. "I…shall go speak to Dairren, as you wish."

"Yes, dear. You do that."

Her skirt swooshing over the pavement in azure waves, she hurried away from the atrium.

_So much for slip ups._

_.  
_

* * *

_._

"I have to hand it to you, Grey Warden. When you dream, you dream of grand things, indeed."

Ceridwen stopped short in her tracks. That voice was familiar and it did not belong here. Not at all. Trying not to show her surprise and disbelief on her face, she turned to her left.

A slender and pale woman stepped out of an oriel's shadow. Her face was hidden in the depths of a red hood, but Ceridwen recognized the clothes, the bearing, and the glowing yellow eyes in the dark.

"You?"

"Surprised to see me, are you?" Morrigan replied with just the faintest amusement audible in her voice. "I confess, I did not think myself to become tangled up in these trite affairs of yours."

"Where do you come from?" Ceridwen asked hesitantly. Was this more trickery? But what purpose would it serve? "I sent you away."

"You need not repeat what has been done, I remember it well." The witch transfixed her with her peculiar yellow gaze. Her eyes seemed to scan over the precious, bejeweled gown she wore and Ceridwen felt uncomfortable beneath the thin, flimsy fabric. The most vulnerable that any of the people who had joined her quest had seen her. She had grown fond of Morrigan in her own way, but this was the part of her identity that she kept sealed away from them all. The witch had no right to trespass. No right at all.

"'Twas 'Hold your tongue, harpy and do as I say' you asked of me, was it not? As you set off to your foolish quest to rescue these Circle mages from the judgment passed by the hand they allowed leashing them?"

She did remember that. Clearly, for the first time. But it was not the right place to dwell on such trifles.

"You did not answer my question, Mo—"

"Do not speak my name, lest you wish to alert the demon of this dream of yours to my presence!" Morrigan cut her off sharply. "'Twas not my idea to rush to _your_ rescue, if 'tis what you imagine. In case you have forgotten, the templars _sealed the door_ once we trespassed into the heart of the tower. I did not wish to linger amongst these docile mages you left me with, so I followed your trail in hope to find the grimoire I spoke of to you myself."

Ceridwen recalled a black book, bound in leathers in First Enchanter Irving's study. If this was all Morrigan had come to find, the witch must have been disappointed, indeed, for she had already claimed it before her party had fallen prey to the demon.

But maybe it was best not to speak of it now. She respected Morrigan and trusted her to a reasonable extent. However, she would also not put it beyond her to leave her in this realm and take the grimoire she was after from her body on the other side of the veil. There was never any telling, what the witch would do next and it unnerved Ceridwen at times, if only because she liked predicting other people's behavior and acting accordingly, before they got a chance to cross her. Everybody betrayed you, if you allowed them too close and let your guard down. How else had Howe felled her father?

"'Twas then that I happened upon your unconscious bodies as you foolishly fell into a demon's grasp. I confess I did not expect such from you."

"And you got trapped yourself." Ceridwen guessed, allowing a small smirk of her own to grace her lips at the faint frown on Morrigan's forehead. Morrigan clutched her staff tighter.

"Indeed." She said darkly. "And the demon that awaited me put up the most unconvincing copy of my mother's likeness. 'Twas quite irritating."

"But how did you find me?"

Morrigan shrugged. "I slayed the demon and went through a portal. It brought me to you. Apparently, the fool demon who operated our capture revels in games. If freeing you and your companions on this insipid quest will let us pass through to our side of the veil, I know not, but given my transportation here, 'twould seem likely."

"You…slayed your _mother's_ _likeness_?"

Morrigan scoffed. "And why not? 'Twas but an image drawn from memory to mask the demon's true nature. Your kind fears mages, because of the temptations that demons seek to offer us. 'Tis the reason these… Circle mages allow your Chantry to lock them away. "She gestured around. "But 'twould seem that not only mages may fall prey to a demon's trickery, does it not?"

_Indeed_.

Ceridwen met her inquisitive gaze with cool indifference. Direct and unwavering eye contact was crucial, no matter the circumstance. Never let the doubt of your own strength shine through. She had worked with animals while she was trained as a ranger and sometimes, Morrigan differed not much from the Wilderness she hailed from.

"I… do not know the whereabouts of my captor. It only showed itself to me briefly."

"But you know at least the manner of disguise it has assumed to delude you?"

Ceridwen could have struck when the demon revealed itself as Duncan's likeness to her, she knew it. But her own weakness had put her at a disadvantage.

"No, it…changed into a new form once I…_had seen_ it. I do not know its current face."

Before the witch was able to respond, they heard the sound of heavy steps drawing near. In a glow of raw magic, Morrigan shape-shifted into a raven and fluttered up one of the pillars framing the oriel. After a beat, two guards passed Ceridwen by and bowed their heads respectfully. She nodded at them. Out of the corner of her eye she tried to keep up with Morrigan. The witch flew in a circular manner over their heads. Most likely attempting to find a place hidden from curious eyes in order to return to her human form.

Ceridwen traced her steps back to the quarters that housed her private chamber. Sure enough, the raven followed suit, if straying now on then from its course. Once she had ascertained that nobody currently haunted these rooms, she opened the portal for Morrigan to fly inside and led her to her chamber.

"'Tis a strange village you dream of." The witch remarked as she transformed back and shook her arms as a last indication of the manner of beast she had just assumed. Her yellow eyes cleared and she studied her surroundings. Ceridwen stiffened. Morrigan should not see this, it made her feel exposed. Stripped bare in front of the most enigmatic and potentially dangerous person she ever had met.

And who she would call a friend even so, before everyone else, because with Morrigan it was not a game of hidden betrayals. It was a simple, brutally honest play of power and survival of the fittest, even if Ceridwen did not always know how to play her cards.

"It's not a village." She answered quietly. "It is my family's estate. The castle of Highever."

"I…have never seen such a building." Morrigan said. "I have heard and read of them and there are ruins left in the Wilds, but I never pictured them so… lively."

"They do not only house the ruling family, but also their entire household. Knights, guards, squires, teachers, servants and their families…a lot of people."

'_People who are now all dead. Whose families grieve just as you do._' A tormenting voice inside her mind whispered_. 'Have you ever thought that you were not the only one who suffered in the aftermath of that night? And you would have left them to die by the hand of darkspawn?'_

"I see." Morrigan turned back to look at her. "So you do not know the demon's guise?"

"No." Ceridwen shook her head. "But there has to be _some_ indicator of its location we can search for. Even demons can be tricked, can't they?"

"I fear your do not have the time for _games_, Warden." Morrigan said pointedly. "'Tis unwise to separate the spirit from its body for too long, assuming you care to stay alive. We will have to strike fast."

"Oh really?" Ceridwen scoffed. "So what, do you expect me to wave around with a sword and behead whoever I happen to see?"

"I do not imagine that having you trip over your own feet if you _tried_ will help." Morrigan said with distaste. "There are many faces in your memory and they have attracted a grand hoard of demons willing to find out what it feels like to live as a mortal does. I can feel their presence. We cannot defeat them all at once. 'Twould be foolishness to try. And yet we cannot linger."

"All of the people in this dream…" Ceridwen began to ask, but the witch cut her off.

"No, not all of them. Some are mindless shadows, direct reflections from your memory, as happens in the depths of the Fade. But those that act and speak on their own accord …these are the ones you will need to weed through in order to find the demon that binds you. Considering the guise my captor chose, I assume it to be someone you were in close contact with, yes?"

_My family._

It wasn't unexpected and yet she had hoped there would be another way. Ceridwen crossed her arms close to her chest, finger nails digging deep into the fabric.

"Very well." She said. 'Where do I start?"

"I do not know. 'Tis your dream." Morrigan answered coolly. "All I can tell you is this: the demon seeks to bind you through your complacency. Refuse the peace it offers and you shall anger it and the other demons who have come to feast upon your memories. And then neither of us will be capable of leaving. Of that can be no doubt."

Delightful. So she would have to kill the likenesses of her family in order to escape without drawing attention to the fact? How was she supposed to do that?

Singling her 'family members' out one after the other, was impossible. There were always servants, guards, knights and the like bustling about and who knew which of them hid a demon and which was a mere reflection? The only halfway private meeting was the dinner scheduled for the evening and even then there would be guests and servants and…

…and she was making excuses.

Ceridwen lowered her gaze to the ground beneath her. So she would have to make sure that they were _alone_ for dinner. A hollow, dry chuckle escaped her throat.

"Murdering my way through dead friends and family. _Lovely_. It seems killing those around me is truly the only thing I can do."

She walked over to her armoire, her hand sliding over the curve of her bow that leant against it, before reaching inside. Her fingers touched the cool metal of a dagger she had never used for anything but slicing up and taking out the deer she shot down. It slipped into her sleeve with a silvery glimmer, cold against her skin.

They were perhaps only in her head, but the words still stung her deeply.

"The thing is that I _can_ do it. If only, because I _must_."

.

* * *

.

She was no murderer.

There were many things Ceridwen had seen and done on the road that had lost the discomfort she would have felt once upon a time. Stealing, smuggling, deception and lies? Without doubt and even often without remorse. She had to ensure that she and her companions survived. She had to make sure that their money and supplies did not run out. No easy feat, when you were shunned, hated and hunted throughout the entire kingdom.

But she did not kill without cause, or so she told herself when she laid down to rest. She killed in order to protect others. She killed out of mercy. She killed…because she _had_ to in order to survive.

But it wasn't murder. Was it?

Loghain had sent an assassin after her, when she had returned from the Deep Roads. Ceridwen had spared his life, not out of mercy, but because the elf had offered himself to her. After days and weeks on end crawling through the darkspawn infested depths of the earth, she had been convinced that the places she could lead this assassin to were worse than death and it would be his retribution. She did not know much of him, yet, because they had reached the tower of Magi mere days after his assassination attempt. He had, however, told her quite freely that everything died one way or another. That there was no differentiation between innocents and those worthy of death.

It repulsed her even now. She would never accept excuses for murder, not after what had happened to her family. Could not. The thought of bringing Howe to justice for his crimes was the only thing that had kept her alive since that night. If she accepted murder as part of her nature, it would leave her bereft of her reason to keep going. And then she would fall apart and everyone would die.

No, she was no murderer.

But this was _different_. This was her game.

"You there!"Her head held high, Ceridwen strolled down the way from her grandfather's study to the kitchen. Almost empty, hidden from sight. A young, red-faced woman with doe eyes looked at her, the housekeeper the demon wearing her mother's face had spoken to, earlier. "Come here."

Her voice allowed no protest. A skill she had not even needed to learn. It was in her blood. She had all the right in the world to do as she pleased with her subjects. They would bow to her wishes as she demanded. No one was allowed to defy her.

This, she cried out in her mind, this is what it means to of noble blood. Absolute power.

_This is what makes me happy. _

Ceridwen drew the dagger openly in front of the housekeeper demon, its blade glistening in sunlight. She was no wielder of blades, no, but she did know how to concoct deadly poisons. Growing her own garden of deadly flowers and plants, a morbid hobby for a nobleman's daughter, as some had said. Had she learnt the skill out of curiosity? To coat her arrows in them when she went out to hunt? Or because of the sense of _power_ it gave her?

It didn't matter. All she knew was that she brewed poisons, because she loved it and because they _killed_ and because it made her _happy_ that they killed.

"Yes, milady?" The housekeeper demon curtsied in front of her, keeping her eyes on the ground. As it should be. Because she was nothing in comparison to her, a tool to be used and thrown away.

"I have a great honor to bestow upon you, girl." Ceridwen announced with generous condescendence. "I discovered a lethal mixture of local herbs and you shall have the honor to do me the service of trying it out."

"I…milady…"

She was vaguely aware of the flicker that surrounded the housekeeper's body, but she chose not to see it. This was her _right_. It was how things always had been. The delicious thrill of power.

"Stand over here. Like that." She grabbed the housekeeper's shoulders and positioned her right in front of her, her gaze sweeping over her as if trying to analyze her suitableness.

"Tell me, _servant_." Her face grew harder than stone and she reveled in it, relished her might, her position far above everyone else. With a swift movement she jabbed the dagger deeply into the girl's stomach, a strangled gasp ringing in her ear.

"_Does this kill you?"_

And because this was her perfect fantasy of the perfect life in which poisons _killed_ and nobles owned their lesser's _everything_, the demon gave a gurgling sound before falling down in front of her feet. Dead.

Her face impassive, Ceridwen stared at the dark demon blood that ran over her hand and pulled the dagger out of the lifeless body.

"That's all I wanted to know." She said quietly and wiped it clean on a handkerchief. Taken out of a satchel she wore over her pretty, pretty dark blue dress.

Nothing happened. No angry demons came her way, no sudden stroke of lethal magic ripped her soul in two. The demon did not know of the mortal world, yearned to learn from her experience. It did not know to differentiate depravity from normalcy as long as she _believed_ it to be perfectly normal.

So Ceridwen decided to spread the joy, to _thrive_ on her greed for power. Unperturbed by the incident, she stepped into the sunlight and scanned the room for more of her subjects to break and hurt. She had always enjoyed being superior, she would not lie.

"Ah, Ser Gilmore!" She cried out, smiling when she caught sight of the red-haired knight. "Arrange for a hunting party and bring father's best knights! There is nothing like a good hunt before dinner!"

She had done this before, of course she had. Because they were _hers_ and she loved the way her arrows penetrated their skull and made them fall down at her feet. In charge of everything, no responsibilities, no duties, no consequences. Just her and the power she commanded. She never wanted to leave this beautiful crimson dream again.

"I am content." Ceridwen murmured to herself, a cool breeze on her face, soft grass underneath her feet. She drew the string of her bow and the first body fell limp and numb to the ground. Farewell, Ser Melney, who had had a pretty wife and five healthy children with whom she had sometimes played.

"The happiest I can ever be."

Farewell Ser Derris with your seven younger sisters. _Wasn't it you who shielded me from the blow of an axe in front of the treasury?_

.

* * *

.

She had ridden out into her beloved woods with sixteen knights in tow. As she returned, eagerly awaiting the dinner with her dear family, there was only one young woman who rode back into the courtyard and no mistake. It had been a good hunt.

Ceridwen handed her horse over to the stable boy with all the casualness in the world. If the world around her seemed to flutter and blur, she attributed it to the rush of excitement that the hunt had sent through her body, nothing else. For good measure, she decided to stab a few more servants to the death for getting into her way, perhaps even a guard or two who dared look at her strangely. Nobody seemed to mind. Her arms were drenched in blood up to her elbows, but the smile on her face never wavered.

So many friends and faces she had known once upon a time. Cracking open the skull of Ser Gilmore, who had defended her and her mother without regard for his own life; with an arrow. Laughing and nodding as Old Nan, the woman who had raised her as a child, never got to finish the tale she told, because she was doubled over in horrible pain from a deep stomach wound. Sitting down to enjoy a good book all the while stepping over old Aldous' dead body in a pool of blood.

There was no need for secrecy, because it was nothing but her game. The sense of absolute _power_ she had never been allowed to explore fully until she had come to this wonderful dream.

She stabbed and sliced and poisoned, blood flooding the lanes of Highever, and the demon did not seem to mind, as long as she did not touch _it_. It even seemed to alter the behavior of the castle's inhabitants to think nothing of it. Everything to keep her happy. It appeared to believe she was content in her mindless violence and that was that. She had longed for a family _and_ her life as a normal noblewoman. There was enough of violence in her past and could a demon decide which memories were tragic and which were not?

'Do I know that anymore?" Ceridwen thought, even though she tried not to think at all, pouring another of her poisoned coatings over the bloodstained dagger. Surprising, how many she had brewed and stowed away in her time. "Does killing make me _content_?"

.

* * *

.

The table at dinner was emptier than expected. It appeared some of the good Highever inhabitants who were supposed to celebrate her victorious return with her had been delayed, as her father told her with regret. She assured him that she did not mind. All the more of her precious gifts left for the handful of people who toasted to her safe return from Ostagar. Her family barely reacted when their guests fell down dead from their chairs one after the other. They _loved_ her so much, their little darling daughter with her amusing little games.

Such was the way of nobles, after all. Intrigue and death.

"How you have brightened our evening, my dear. It is a piece of art." Her mother commented appreciatively as she cut her piece of roasted meat in half. Just like a good mother would do. So proud and supportive of her daughter's accomplishments.

"I liked how Ser Ainsley fell headfirst into his soup bowl, myself." Fergus chuckled at her side. "His head all but got stuck. If your poison hadn't been so effective, little sister, I say, he'd have drowned."

She gave them a radiating smile. "I try my best. Personally, I prefer the supreme look of surprise on Lady Landra's face as her throat swelled and cut off her breathing."

"A grand moment, indeed." Her father agreed, ruffling his hand through her hair. "Well done, pup."

"If you will excuse me, milord and lady." Oriana said suddenly and pointed at little Oren who was having trouble keeping his eyes open. He had never managed to stay awake for the entirety of an evening, Ceridwen remembered well.

"I believe I shall see to it that Oren is put into bed."

She tried to ignore the ice cold fingers that seemed to clutch at her heart, but she had assumed that it would come to this. So many dead and she was still here. The demon was in one of her own.

"Let me come with you, sister." Ceridwen heard herself say and stood, stepping over Lady Landra's dead body. "My nephew asked me to read him a story, before bedtime."

"Just make sure it is not too adventurous, Ceridwen." Fergus laughed from his seat. "If you get him too excited, he will be up all night."

She followed after her sister-in-law and the drowsy Oren and looked back at her brother. Her voice was light and cheerful.

"Oh, don't you worry, brother. I will make sure he will sleep tightly."

.

* * *

.

"Thank you for accompanying me, sister." Oriana said, once they had stepped outside the dining hall. "Oren has been anticipating your return for days; he would scarcely speak of anything else."

The passed through the atrium in silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Ceridwen saw a shadow following them. It was time. She clutched Oren's little hand tighter in her grasp and he smiled up at her with those large, adoring eyes. As they reached her brother's bedroom, she turned to look at Oriana.

"Do you mind waiting outside, while I read to him? I doubt you'd want to be caught up in our antics. Isn't that right, Oren?" She ruffled through the boy's hair and he laughed appreciatively.

"Don't be silly, Ceridwen. Take all the time you need."

Ceridwen closed the door behind them and looked at the demon that bore her little nephews face.

"Will you tell me a story about your adventures, Auntie?" he asked her innocently.

It took all her willpower to keep up her charade of utter happiness. Take the life of a _child?_

But this was another step closer to power. Killing her brother's heir, so she would advance in the succession. The opportunity she had never had before. That she should be so lucky now, almost unbelievable. _Brilliant_.

Ceridwen heard a faint swoosh from outside, a gargling sound followed by utter silence. She braced herself.

"Come now, young man, go to bed and I will tell you of my adventures at once."

Drawing closer to the childish figure, she almost let the dagger slip from her sweaty palms. 'All the opportunities' she sang inside her head. 'Finally mine. _All mine_.'

Carefully, she tucked her nephew in, safely, securely, stroking his small, round head.

"There's a good lad." She cooed and pressed the dagger lightly to his exposed neck.

"What…what are you doing, Auntie?"

He sounded _exactly_ like her dead nephew. Her smile seemed almost desperate.

"I'm helping you with falling asleep, Oren."

The blade cut deeper into the skin, drawing a small trickle of blood and her nephew did not even whimper. Images surfaced inside her faster than she was able to lock them away. Oren and Oriana on the cold stone floor, bloody holes in their chest, all life drained away. Her mother's sobs as they stormed inside. The dark, boiling grief inside her soul.

Ceridwen's resolve slipped. And the demon caught on.

The outline of Oren's body turned blurry, revealing flashes of the creature's true demonic nature. She stood there, dagger in her hand, but paralyzed by the sight. _It_ rose up higher from the bed, floating. A feral growl shook the ground beneath her feet and still, all she did was watch as Oren's body twisted into all sorts of directions. Suddenly, the door crashed open by sheer force of magic and Morrigan stormed inside.

"Don't be a fool!" She cursed. The demon began to glow, its transformation into its real form all but impending. Ceridwen looked dazedly at her raised dagger, at the fuming witch assembling her arcane power to strike the death blow herself. "'Tis but a demon!"

And before she knew it, Ceridwen cut her nephew's throat in one swift movement.

The glowing subsided. In its wake, all that was left on the bed was a twisted, demonic body. Not Oren. Not her nephew. Ceridwen's heart was racing so fast, it hurt. As if in trance, she looked at the witch beside her.

'_I did it.'_

In desperate need for air, solitude, something, she staggered out of the room, almost stumbling over the remains of yet another demon's charred remains. Oriana. She hid her face in her hands, breathing deeply.

'_I really did it.'_

Forcing herself to breath evenly, Ceridwen let her hands slide down. "Come." She whispered hoarsely. "There is still much to be done."

"Indeed", Morrigan agreed and followed her in the shadows, as Ceridwen went her lonely way back to the dining hall.

_This is the happiest you can ever be_, she told herself, the stirrings of hysteria slowly claiming her. _Remember that._

.

* * *

.

She met her brother's likeness in the lane before the dining hall, broadly smiling at her. Of course he wanted to say goodnight to his son. He'd loved Oren dearly, oh yes, she remembered. What she _didn't_ remember was that Fergus was a fast bleeder, but he did so all the same. A bottomless void cleared out all feeling as she saw his body slowly dissolve into the fiendish demon that lay beneath her brother's easy smile and gentle eyes. One step closer still to power.

'_Kin slayer'_, she whispered voicelessly. "Happiest…I can…ever…I can…"

Stepping over the dead creature, she pushed the dining hall's door open and was greeted with the sight of her mother hanging from her stool in a twisted position, slack-jawed and her lips turning black. Poisoned. By _her_ hand.

"Ah, my clever daughter." Her father's cheerful voice was but a bitter mockery of the despair that enveloped her so completely, so entirely. To see them all dead for the _second time_. Why did the demon even bother trying to maintain the illusion? Was it still not the right one? Or did it still believe her fooled?

The demon approached her, arms wide open. "How artfully you have done away with those who stood in your way, my dear. But you were always the smart one of my children. My favorite. _I am proud of you._"

Ceridwen allowed herself to be entranced by his soothing voice, allowed the foul creature- no, her father- to embrace her. The hold he held over her was so much more powerful, her love for him so true. The demon _knew_ she would never kill her own father and he let her _feel_ it. Quiet sobs bubbled up her throat.

"Yes father." Finally, a single tear broke free from her glistening eyes, glittering in firelight as it rolled down the curve of her cheek. "Thank you."

And she watched the life drain from her father's eyes as she buried her poisoned dagger up to the hilt inside his back.

A demonic scream pierced through the night, bright white glow erupted from where she stood. In a powerful stroke of energy, Ceridwen was flung against a wall. Except, that the wall vanished ere she touched it, faded into a stream of colors and shapeless patterns. The castle around her dissolved into nothingness, the village, the meadows, the forest following suit shortly after. Where there had been sharp lines, lights and shadows, there was suddenly nothing palpable, nothing definite, nothing orderly.

Heavily trembling, Ceridwen climbed up to her feet. A thousand voices seemed to shout inside her head, all of them at once in a chaotic dissonance.

'_I killed them._ _I killed them all.'_

Her roaming gaze fell on Morrigan, somewhere…distant, but not far from her, overlooking the changing scenery.

"I have never…seen so much water in one place." The witch said wistfully, as the illusion of the Waking Sea faded from view. "'Tis…grand, indeed."

Instead of an answer, Ceridwen stumbled towards her. Her hands, _so full of her father's blood_, searched feverishly for Morrigan's staff in order to stabilize her feet.

'_I have murdered my own dead family.'_

Ceridwen did not know the technicalities of what followed, or how it was even possible, but right there, in the realm of dreams, spirits and demons, the last of the Couslands bend over and threw up violently.

Perhaps it was her very soul vomiting.

When she was done, she looked right past the utter and all-encompassing disgust on Morrigan's face.

"Let's get out of here." She growled harshly, wiping her chin with her once again leather clad arm. "We will slaughter everything in this Maker-forsaken place that tries to get into our way."

_And they would burn._

.

.

* * *

.

.

From the distant view across Lake Calenhad, it seemed almost surreal that this beautiful scenery had housed such gruesome horrors. A high rising tower shrouded in dark night under the brilliant light of the moon. Not a single movement disturbed the lake's smooth and glittering surface.

Ceridwen sat far away from the warm, flickering glow of her companion's camp fire, her dangling feet lightly touching the cool water. A gentle breeze played with her dirty, scrubby curls and she closed her eyes, shivering.

It had been five days now since they had defeated Uldred. Five days of affirming alliances, restocking supplies, healing injuries and trying not to think of anything but the present. She barely remembered what had happened after she had slain the demon that had held her captive in her nightmare, but there were _flashes_ of the most unwelcome kind. Freeing her companions from their demons' grasp should have been laughably simple, after the ordeal she had gone through beforehand, but being confronted with Oghren's, Wynne's and Alistair's nightmares had pushed her even closer to the rim of madness. Helpless failure, devastating survivor's guilt and the desperate longing for a family. A horrid revision of her own faults and desires.

Ceridwen had been true to her word. She had slaughtered _everything_ in her way.

It had only been because of Wynne literally shouting into her face that she would be killing _innocents_ if she mindlessly cut all mages down that had stopped her from destroying the Circle for good. Had the old mage been there… she would have committed _true murders_.

Ceridwen looked down at her hands. They were red and raw; because she had rubbed them clean almost in frenzy once she had had the opportunity. She did not mourn for the demons she had slain. But it frightened her that she had been _able_ to look in the faces of loved ones and kill them.

All her life she had avoided blades, both when she was attacked and when she attacked herself. They had held no fascination for her and she had loved the pointed precision behind archery well. The distance between her and her prey had held its unique thrill of _power_. It seemed, she had found her reason for the avoidance at last. Being up close when you killed, feeling the deadly impact of your weapon, seeing the life drain away first hand, was an entirely new sense of power over life and death.

Leliana had called her refusal to train with daggers impractical once.

And it would _stay_ that way. After what she had been through, there had to be leeway for stupid personal quirks.

She smiled obscurely.

Indeed, it seemed as if she ran headfirst from one traumatizing experience to the next. After the massacre at Highever, she had witnessed the massacre at Ostagar. After Ostagar, she had found herself in the midst of dwarves killing each other on open streets, had spent weeks on end cutting her bloody swath through the Deep Roads only to find even more tragedy, more killing in the form of the horrid broodmother and Branka. And after that, the entire Circle of Magi had been taken by destruction, despair and death. It was nothing but death and blood, wherever she went.

Was there nothing else anymore?

She tightened her arms around her body, trying and failing to keep the cold outside. And what if there truly wasn't? Somehow you always learnt to adapt and _survive_, but how did you _go on_? Was _duty_ sufficient to sustain a sentient being?

"There you are." A voice spoke up behind her and Ceridwen froze.

She had come out here, because she could not bear the presence of others with all these unproductive doubts and shadows in her head. Their hollow facades of companionship and loyalty and worst of all, _pity_. During those past five days, she'd barely exchanged a single word with them.

"What do you want?" She said harshly, her voice raspy and raw, and turned her face away from the intruder. Always the chatty one, no matter the circumstance, like a bad itch that just wouldn't go away. She hadn't minded so much in the Deep Roads, because they drove you insane if you had no distraction. And in a sense it _was_ reassuring to have someone always willing to talk to her, despite everything, if she cared to admit it. Right now, however, she did _not_.

"Well…" Alistair looked around, fumbling for words, his hesitance almost palpable. "We sort of pestered Morrigan into telling us what… _happened_, when we were at the tower. In the Fade, I mean. You might think we haven't noticed, but you haven't been quite… _you_ lately."

"Afraid I'm going to slit your throat next, are you?" Ceridwen said with a dry chuckle. "Don't worry; I think I shall restrain myself for the time being."

He gave an uncertain laugh in return. "Well, I would hope that with all your fancy schooling in etiquette you would warn us first if you were suddenly out for our blood. Then we could, ah, negotiate."

The hollow look on her face made him wince slightly. "And…that was probably a very bad way to start the conversation."

"You think?" she said and scooted away from him as far as possible as he sat down next to her. How did he manage to stay so light-hearted in spite of all that happened around them? It was like his ever-lasting optimism pulled him back up to his feet, no matter what life threw at him and how much it _hurt_. Sure, he complained and moaned endlessly about his terrible woe and grief, whenever possible, really, but at the end of the day he was up and ready to charge. She had to admit that she envied that irritating trait of his. Bottling up your sorrow seemed a very practical and sensible thing to do right up until you found yourself bursting.

"What I'm trying to say is that we're, ah, a tiny bit worried about our fearless leader. At least, some of us. "He gestured over his shoulder, back to their camp. Reluctantly, her gaze followed and she made out the figures of Leliana and Wynne, who she did not even know so well yet, glancing their direction every now and then. All the while appearing to be very busy. She snorted. How very inconspicuous.

"And they elected me to go look for you." Slight annoyance seeped into Alistair's voice. "Apparently, I'm the most '_expendable'_ member of our group. In case you should randomly decide to claw someone's eyes out, you know. "

"Oh, I'm not going to kill _you_ anytime soon, don't you worry." Ceridwen said sardonically. "You have been in the Deep Roads with me; you are not getting out of this one. If I am going to have nightmares about darkspawn, broodmothers and archdemons every night, I will damn well not be the only one."

"So nice to be appreciated, really." He retorted with faked cheeriness. "It warms the heart."

A small pause ensued between them and Ceridwen closed her eyes, taking in the sounds of the night as she tried to clear her mind. She had been intolerant of a commoner trying to understand her plight at first, but she had come to be grateful not to be the only one who heard the darkspawn whispering in her sleep. Knowing that she wasn't hallucinating _was_ somewhat comforting. In the sense that at least she hadn't gone full out insane yet.

And with Alistair, his intentions were plain for her to read on the surface. He needed her to stop the Blight and if she went down, he would too. Despite their different claims, all of her other companions had the option to _leave_, if they really wanted to. They had a way _out_.

Ceridwen let her eyes flutter open again and began to draw small circles into the dusty ground beneath her. _She_ did not. Alistair did not.

"Anyway." He sighed, breaking the silence. "I…just wanted to say that I can't imagine what it must be like-"

Ceridwen interrupted him quickly with the first thing that came to her. "I didn't know you had a sister."

She did not want to talk about what _happened_. It was bad enough that Morrigan had been there to see her. The witch _had_ to have made the logical conclusion that she had in fact givenin to the demon willingly. None of their other companion's had had such _extensive_ dreams as she, after all, even if they had been just as tragic in their own right.

It could have been the same with her. Slay the Duncan demon, meet up with Morrigan, find Niall, grab her companions and get out of there. If she had been just a little stronger… it could have been over _so fast._

"Oh, I …uh, yes. I do." Alistair said, surprised at the quick change of topic, but quite helpless to avoid it. She looked up at him.

"You told me that the Arl took _you_ in, not _two_ orphans at once. That's most surprising, considering his standing. Was he on a run for charity, or something?"

"Err…no. To be honest, I don't really know her. I know _of_ her, but we got…separated. "He shrugged uneasily. "Doesn't mean I haven't ever wondered about her. Obviously."

Ceridwen thought of Fergus, her heart aching. If she had never known her brother, she would never have had to endure seeing his wife and child slain on the floor, never have seen him_ die by her hand_…

She missed him _so incredibly much_ and yet she feared him now, too.

What, if, despite all odds, he still lived, hiding away somewhere in the Wilds? Would she even be able to face him after what had happened in the Fade?

"Didn't you feel bad about it? Killing your own _sister_?"

"Well, we didn't really kill _her."_ said Alistair matter-of-factly. "We killed a demon. You learn to differentiate between the two pretty quickly in templar training, believe me. But, no, I don't feel bad about _killing_ the demon. I think it's the 'fooling me' part that's worse."

"But…but…" Ceridwen grasped for words to express the turmoil inside her. "The demon looked _just like_ _her_! How can you be okay with…with looking her in the eye and…just…beheading _your sister_?"

"I… think I know what you're really asking me here." He said."But to be honest, you and I are not quite in the same situation. I have never met my sister. Ever."

"What?!" She exclaimed. "But then how…How did you even know it was her?"

Alistair grimaced. "I didn't, actually. I guess, the demon just made her up and I wanted to…believe it was her? As I said, you probably shouldn't go around telling everyone how easily I've been fooled. It's not good for the self-esteem. I might consider throwing myself headfirst into a darkspawn sword, if Morrigan starts pointing and laughing at me. Just giving you a heads-up."

No miraculous advice how to get over the kin slaying trauma from that front, it seemed.

She faltered.

"Oh. I shall keep _that_ in mind."

"In case you want to do away with me after all? Aw, really, that isn't nice of you."He shook his head. "Oh, the shame."

"_Nice_?" Ceridwen repeated, her gaze fixed on the lake's surface. "What makes you think I'm _nice_? We're…all we do is _killing_ and more killing, and then some killing for variation. Nothing _nice_ about that."

People were dying all around her and whenever she wanted to keep them from dying; she had to kill something else. _Someone_ else. And then there were people dying again.

"But that's just how it is, right? No sense dwelling on it." She took a deep breath, trying to pull herself together. And failed.

"How does one stand that?" She whispered, looking up at the cold, bright moon. "All this…death?"

Again silence claimed them, and Ceridwen drew her knees up, encircling them with her arms. There had been a time when she would never have allowed anyone to see her in this state, least of all a commoner bastard. But she didn't really care right now. Not before long it would be darkspawn in her dreams again, and then in the morrow the grand Grey Warden on her quest of saving her beloved Ferelden and then slaying and lectures about self-sacrifice and then again slaying and then some more darkspawn and then….then…

For the rest of her life. Only _this_.

"Here." Alistair suddenly shifted beside her, holding out something for her to take. Ceridwen squinted in the darkness, trying to make it out. "Look at this. Do you know what that is?"

The curve of her lip quirked slightly upward. A very strange time for stupid questions and even stranger objects to appear out of nowhere. But maybe stupidity was a welcome distraction.

"Your new weapon of choice?" She said dryly, hesitantly closing her fingers around the flower. Knowing her bloody luck, she would probably sting herself with its thorns and draw some blood for good measure. It had happened before. Not that her suitors had been any luckier, because _she_ had stung them pretty badly with her words afterwards, too.

Alistair snorted. "Yes, that's right. Watch as I thrash our enemies with the mighty power of floral arrangements! Feel my thorns, darkspawn! I will overpower you with my rosy scent!"

Ceridwen regarded his antics warily, twirling the rose between her fingers. What was he playing at?

"Or, you know, it could just be a rose. I know, that's pretty dull in comparison."

"Perhaps not." She replied cautiously, trying to gauge his motivations. "Sentiment can be a pretty potent weapon."

Too her honest surprise, Alistair appeared a little sheepish.

"Is it that easy to see right through me? I guess I shouldn't be surprised." He shrugged. "I picked it in Lothering. I remember thinking, 'How could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?' I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. So I've had it ever since."

"A…nice sentiment." Ceridwen answered hesitantly. Why tell her this? Her gaze focused on the velvety, dark red rose buds. Soft and fragile. It _was_ beautiful; she had to give him that. Much too beautiful for such a dreary world. She could scarcely believe he had kept it all this time. How could it possibly have survived that long, all the way from Lothering? Leliana _had_ mentioned a miracle rose in the Chantry of Lothering when she had talked about her 'vision' as she called her blasphemous delusions, Ceridwen remembered. It could be the same one, who knew. The Maker seemed to have his very own sense of humor.

But it seemed almost unthinkable that such beauty should still be left in the world. And yet… right here it was, alive and well in her tainted, blood-stained hands, against all odds. Something worth protecting. Was that what he was trying to tell her?

In her simmering grief, Ceridwen found herself actually comforted by the thought. She motioned to give the rose back, however, Alistair's hands pulled away when she tried.

"I thought that I might... give it to you, actually." He admitted. "In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you."

"You think of _me_ as a gentle flower?" She laughed harshly.

He'd certainly be the best liar she'd ever encountered if he was able to make that claim with a straight face. There were reasons she had been called the Cousland 'spitfire' even before she had become a professional killer of all things living. She _had_ spit fire when she'd talked with her lesser. Constantly. Even though she herself preferred to think of it rather as acid, than fire. Acid was calmer and more precise than fire. Less…vulgar.

"A gentle flower?" He seemed bewildered by that association. Well, that would make two of them. "No, I... don't know that I'd put it that way."

His gaze was somewhere between the horizon line of Lake Calenhad and her face. It was hard to tell in the dark.

"I guess it's a bit silly, isn't it? I just thought... here I am doing all this complaining, and you haven't exactly been having a good time of it yourself."

She thought back to the moment when she had felt the dagger push into her father's – _the demon's!_ - flesh and shivered. "That would be the understatement of the year."

His eyes turned towards her in full and Ceridwen's insides bristled when she beheld the expression within them. _Pity_. She did not want it. If her companions _pitied_ her, they already thought she had lost her strength. Which… she _had_ in that very moment when she had given in to the demon's temptation, but that didn't mean the others needed to know.

If they thought she was not stronger than they, she had nothing to bind them. Yet Ceridwen couldn't do this on all by herself. Pity was _death_.

"You've had none of the good experience of being a Grey Warden since your Joining, not a word of thanks or congratulations. It's all been death and fighting and tragedy."

Her eyes widened, despite herself.

"I thought maybe I could say something." There was sincerity in Alistair's face that she could not understand. "Tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this... darkness."

She stared at him. _Her?_

Why…why would he say that? What had he to _gain?_ There was nothing worth claiming in her possession, not after she had been stripped of her title and disgraced. Did he mistrust her resolve to continue their journey to gather their army? What exactly had Morrigan _told_ them?Her thoughts were stuck.

But judging from Alistair's nervous expression, he expected her to say something. _Anything_.

"I…" Ceridwen shook her head just the slightest bit, out of wonder or disapproval was hard to say. Almost of their own accord, her grasp tightened around the flower. A thorn pinched into her skin. "This…gesture is…"

_Hardly appropriate._

She swallowed the words as quickly as they popped into her head. But her mind told her that they were true. Because she begrudged him doubting her strength? Because she did not believe him sincere? Because she actually _liked_ it?

Whatever it was, her pause was too long and Alistair came to his own conclusion. Despite his attempts at masking it, she saw his face fall.

"I guess it was, uh, just a stupid impulse." He did not meet her eyes, as he stood, patting off dust in order to disguise his awkwardness with the moment. "Oh well. I think I'll just head over there now, back to camp. I have to give the status report to our worried onlookers, you know how it is. Maybe jump in the lake later. And now I'm rambling again, so I'll, ah, leave you alone."

Ceridwen watched him go, her eyes still wide and round.

This had been…unexpected, to put it mildly. But ultimately of little consequence. Her fingertips grazed tentatively over the soft petals.

On sudden impulse, she leaned a little forward, staring at her shadowy reflection in the water. Even if it was dark already, she was able to make out her frizzled curls, her meager cheeks, the dark shadows under her eyes. Her face, drained from battle and bloodshed.

_A rare and wonderful thing?_

Nonsense.

.

* * *

.

"Hey Warden! Who took a shit in your drink today?"

Ceridwen scowled down at the dwarf from across the camp fire. Oh, she was absolutely overjoyed to have been shooed into first watch. Apparently, she was 'too twitchy' since they had left the tower and her companions thought it best for her to try and sleep through the night.

Which was a punishment otherwise known as standing watch with Oghren. Once the dwarf was asleep, there was virtually no waking him up, so naturally, he always got first watch. Ceridwen _did_ respect him…somewhat for his prowess in battle, which had served wonderfully well to keep her alive in the Deep Roads. But she had been raised with certain expectations of what a minimum in manners consisted of and Oghren failed them so spectacularly, so entirely, so thoroughly, that it was almost brilliant.

Almost.

"Pardon me?" She said icily, wrapping her arms closer around herself.

Why was it that she felt so cold, despite the heat from the fire? She'd rarely had a problem with _that_ since the taint ravaged through her veins.

Oghren gave a horribly dissonant chuckle. "Yeah, I'll pard-ohhh-n you, alright, naughty girl."

She sighed. That was a new one, if terrible. "There was no basis for innuendo in what I just said, dwarf. And I would not even touch you at a meter's range, poking you with a stick."

"Eh? Suit yourself." Ceridwen shuddered as Oghren belched, loud and openly for everyone to hear. If you discounted the fact that there was currently nobody else but her to hear it. She was a lucky one, indeed. "I'm not sodding drunk enough for you anyway, _human_. You look like a Bronto just tried to hump your face and couldn't get away fast enough."

She smiled tersely. "Charming."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." He gulped down the entirety of his bottle. Where the dwarf constantly procured new alcohol from, Ceridwen could not tell for the life of her. It was useless to try and stop him. Oghren grinned, his nose slightly reddened.

"Now, that's the _stuff_! You want some?"

"No, thanks." She gave him a pointed look. "I for one prefer to keep my pants in place."

"No kidding, so do I." Oghren bellowed back. Ceridwen winced at the sight of half of his 'special brew' running down his red beard. "Human legs are sodding weird. All bone, going on for miles and no real butt to be found at either end." He lowered his voice, blinking at her conspiratorially out of his drooping eye. "Don't tell the dog, though. He still thinks he's got the pants, the poor sod."

"What a devious little man you are." She said airily.

"Hey now, Warden, don't go throwing yourself at me like the bleedin' Antivan! Way he talks, he's been rolling in the rut with more shit than you can find on a Bronto's ass."

Ceridwen grimaced. "If I ask you to kindly stick your face into your bottle and not come up again until our watch is over, will you indulge me?"

"That some kind of fancy surfacer propositioning?" Oghren squinted at her. "Bah, sodding humans. All smiles and words and…words and smiles and then some. You thick in the head, or something? I already told you, woman, you're not my type."

"I shall never recover from the disappointment."

Ceridwen twisted her fingers around the…object in her hands, as she stared into the flickering fire. Should she just get rid of it? Give it back? Did she even want to?

She just didn't know what to think anymore. How to react, how to…plan ahead. Everything was a giant mess. Her appearance, her thoughts, her life, her quest…everything. Even her constant wallowing in self-pity. It was all too much at once to process. Ceridwen bit her lip. She couldn't just throw all her preconceived notions out of the window, could she? What…what was she even trying to accomplish here?

"Ugh, I can't drink with these faces you're making, Warden." Oghren's rumbling voice reached her ears once more. "Makes the stomach act up. And I've washed liquids down there that can skin a nug. What's eating you?"

Ceridwen frowned. "Why would you care? There's still some booze left in your bottle."

"You've been in the slumps for almost a sodding week and it's starting to get annoying. Take it from someone who knows, Warden. Whatever it is, you either get drunk or go out and chop something down. Everything else is just a bloody waste of time."

"Well, aren't you a well of wisdom today." She said flatly, kneading her fingers some more. "Considering how _brilliantly_ that strategy has worked out for you up until now."

"Ah, get off my case, Warden." Oghren said gruffly."Too much thinking, is all I'm saying. That's the problem with you silent, sneaky types. Everything has to be done with 'planning' and, what do they call it, 'finesse'. Goes to the head." He downed another enormous gulp. "You've got to learn to turn off your thinking and just join the fray, if you really want to live. Aye?"

Ceridwen looked up at him, surprised at her own interest stirring up. "Is that the philosophy behind that berserker thing of yours?"

"It's not a 'thing', Warden; it's a centuries old dwarven warrior tradition." Oghren said with unexpected forcefulness. "Helped us kill a sodding big load of darkspawn, too."

"But how can you fight without thinking?" Ceridwen wondered out loud. Even when she raged, her strikes had to be precise in order to keep her enemies at long range where they could not reach her. There was always that tiny bit of conscience left in the forefront of her mind and it kept track of every man she struck down, every monster she went through. She reflected upon her fights, when they were over, trying to learn, trying to improve. And then the nightmares came, all the doubts and regrets and worst of all, the guilt. "How do you learn that?"

"What's there to learn?" Oghren grumbled. "You get mad, you fight and things die. Simple as that."

Like…thriving on your rage? Encouraging the absence of rational thought? But that was so…archaic. How did you make sure not to hit your allies?

"Why would anyone want to fight like that?"

"Why the sod not? It's simple and it's effective. Besides." Oghren lowered his bottle to the ground. Flickers of fire glimmered in the reflection of his eyes. "You don't need to think much, when home's on the line. Orzammar needs all the help it can sodding get, dirty nug hole that it is."

'_Your worst nightmare is my every day.' _Kardol of the Legion of the Dead had said that and it had sent a shiver down her spine.

When home is on the line_…_

"And that's what makes you right?" She could not help but ask. "Fighting for home? To protect others?"

"Bah, Warden." Oghren grimaced. "If I hadn't seen you stick up for your corner in battle yet, I would think you're one of those sissy Deshyrs in their sodding assembly. You don't fight to be right. You fight to make things dead. And brag about it to your comrades- in- arms the other day, if that's what you want." He looked at her out of his reddened, drooping eyes. "Because if you don't, they'll crack your skull open, take a piss on you and then your sodding family is looking out from under the stone. Simple enough, aye?"

'_He was warrior caste once,_' she thought and it hit her like a new revelation, even though it wasn't really. '_The real kind. Before Branka and the booze.'_

"But how do you stand it?" Her voice cracked slightly. "How do you stand being useless for anything but _killing_?"

Oghren toasted her. "You drink, Warden. And then you go out again and do what you must."

What you _must_, she thought, watching the dance of the flames before her. _Duty_. It was always the same song, but it had such a different tune when taken from the lips of someone whose entire race's dwindling chance of survival hinged on _duty_. Politics in Orzammar were brutal for a reason. The dwarves had lost almost all of their grand empire to darkspawn. There was no Archdemon for them to find and slay to put an end to the horrors. Their numbers decreased with each passing year and for every newborn child, there had to be a captured woman out somewhere who birthed hundreds of new darkspawn.

And she was sitting here, lamenting her own cruel fate because she had to fight a Blight?

"Do you hate me?" Ceridwen asked all of a sudden, before she could stop herself. Oghren's answer was as short as it was poignant.

"Eh?"

She looked him straight in the eye. "Do you hate me for killing Branka?"

"Shut your mouth, Warden. I'm not here to play sodding games with you."

He sounded even gruffer than usual and she knew it wasn't because of his drink.

"She took her entire house with her when she went._ Three-hundred_ dwarves, Oghren, and you were the _only one_ she left behind. She humiliated you; she made you the laughing stock of all Orzammar. In the end, they took away your caste in everything but name. "Ceridwen pressed on mercilessly. "And _still_ you waited for a chance to just come and get her. Two _years_, Oghren. I could have just let her have the Anvil. I could have given it to her and she would still live today. Where do I get off to stick my nose into dwarven business anyway? But I didn't. I killed her. Do you hate me for it?"

It was impossible to assess the impact her words had on him, because his expression was blank and unreadable. Ceridwen wondered if she had gone too far. They had talked about the mindlessly raging ways of the Berserkers mere moments ago. Would he snap and attack her? Belch and go back to drinking? Make a perverted joke and permanently close himself off afterwards?

Oghren sighed.

"Warden, you didn't kill her. The damn Anvil got to her, before we did. That dew-licking crazy head down there wasn't really Branka."

She twirled the flower in her hand. "Was she truly such a remarkable woman once?"

"They made her a sodding paragon, didn't they? Aye, the girl had a brilliant head on her shoulders. Fired the over like no other, too, if you know what I mean. Excellent sex."

Ceridwen generously overheard that last bit and tried be touched by his words for what they were.

"But… crazy or not, it was still _her_ and we killed her. Doesn't that make you…I don't know." She shrugged. "Sad? Angry?"

"I'm angry that the sodding nug-licker didn't take me with her, alright. If I'd been down there with her, she wouldn't have gone crazy." Oghren belched. "Not because of the Anvil, anyway. Sometimes I'm thinking I am the way I am, because she went, but maybe she went, because I've always been like this. But don't go crying on me or anything, Warden. It's done. Stone take her."

She remembered what he had said, when they had first come face to face with Branka. At the time, Ceridwen had been too unnerved from the entire experience with the Broodmother to give it second thought, but now that she looked back on it...she felt almost ashamed for taking the dwarf with all his belching and drinking and farting at face value for so long.

"_We'll help her get the Anvil, and then she'll come home and everything will be better."_

For good or worse, they were all fiddling around with that. Everything will be better. Everything would be better. _If only_.

If Oghren had been different, maybe Branka wouldn't have left him and everything would have been better. If Alistair had been there with Duncan, maybe Duncan would've survived instead, and everything would be better. If Wynne hadn't been injured in Ostagar, maybe she would've been at the Circle before Uldred and could have averted the catastrophe.

If _she_ had stayed and defended her parents, maybe they could have found a way to escape together. Maybe Howe would not have murdered them. And then everything would have been _good_**. **Eventually**.**

'_Warden, you didn't kill her.'_ The flickering fire made a myriad of shadows dance over her face.

Howe was the one who had killed her family. Not her. She would not take the blame for his crimes. She would not feel guilty for taking the life of demons. It was _done_. Her family was back at the Maker's side, far out of her reach and if they looked into her heart they would know that she had never done anything other than loved them.

And maybe there was indeed nothing else for her but killing for duty. If that was what the world, what _Ferelden_ needed of her…so be it. She looked down at the rose in her hands and the faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of her lips, despite herself.

But maybe there was still beauty left to find amidst all this death and darkness.

_If…_

"So, Warden, fess up." Oghren's voice suddenly shook her out of her swirling thoughts. Ceridwen found herself utterly baffled by the leering expression on his face. Had she missed something in between dire talk of Branka and now?

"You and the virgin, aye?"

Ceridwen stiffened. "What?"

Oghren grinned. "Yeah, I saw the womenfolk pestering Alistair to go '_check up'_ on you, say no more. Boy's as pure as my sodding sword after a good old spit and shine up. Wouldn't be my first choice, but if that's what gets you going, sure, why not?"

"You're not seriously suggesting, what I think you are, are you?" She asked scandalized, unable to keep her incredulousness out of her voice. This was most…most inappropriate prying and just…not done.

"Come again?" Oghren let his bottle sink slowly from his face and stared at her. "Oh no. You're not one of them, too, Warden, are you?"

She frowned at him. "Of whom, Oghren?"

"Of them uncut diamonds, woman!" He bellowed loudly. "Never cupped your Joining? Never greyed your Warden? Never groped your grinder? Eh, eh?"

"I…_what_?"

"Sodding brilliant!" Oghren scowled at her and drank from his bottle in an almost sullen manner. "I'm following _two_ virgins into battle? By the ancestors, stone swallow me up and shit me out whole!" He shook his head. "Well, if you need a heads up, you know where to find me. The ancestors know you're damn ugly, but I can take one for the team, aye."

Ceridwen felt her cheeks flush, which bristled her even more. It was such a…a commoner thing to do. "I have no need for your 'heads up'…and there is nothing of the like going on."

"Damn shame it is." Oghren grumbled. "You should let him bend you over a basin. Might get that stick you've got shoved up there out of your ass."

"Excuse me?"

He ignored her flustered outcry. "Well, what'd the little pike-twirler do, anyhow? I couldn't really see with all those damn trees and your sodding dark ceiling up here. Looked like he gave you something, aye?"

Ceridwen pressed her lips to a thin line. "That is none of your business, Oghren. Do me a favor, will you, and go back to your oblivious drunken self? It would be _greatly_ appreciated."

"Yeah, yeah, say no more, I got it." She did not like that look in the dwarf's eye one bit. "Gave you a good glimpse of the old weapon, did he? For future reference. You know, to get some 'hands on' experience, relieve a little tension in the fingers before the…"

"Oh, ew, Oghren, no! Stop it, stop it!" Ceridwen cried out and almost leapt from her feet. "He gave me a flower! A _flower_, you hear me?"

"Flower?" Oghren paused. "That one of your surfacer euphemisms again?"

She thrust her arm up so he could see the rose she had twirled around in her hands this entire time. "I mean a rose! Such as this!"

Oghren's leering grin morphed into an expression of utter disappointment and contempt. "Ancestors, for all that the boy's acting like a sodding sissy girl; I can't believe he's _actually_ into girls. Sodding excuse for a warrior."

She scowled at him for that, even though she was not entirely sure, why. But it _had_ been a sweet gesture, she could not deny that.

"So when will some _real_ action go on?" The dwarf just didn't know when to stop. Sadly, she had the faint suspicion that his head was hard enough for her arrows to just bounce right off if she were tempted to shoot him. "They always describe the surface as the bloody haven of debauchery. I haven't seen anything of that going on around these parts, yet."

Her fingers closed tightly around the rose. "Don't get your hopes up. There won't _be_ any 'action'."

Oghren just looked at her. "Why the sod not?"

The answer did not come as easily as Ceridwen would have liked it to. Mostly, because she hadn't really paused to think 'Why?' before. It had been clear that 'not', after all, hadn't it? She had mostly been preoccupied with the 'What if?' and 'Why would he?' and 'What was his gain?'.

Why…why seemed so simple. But was it?

Was he not her cup of tea? Did she not like him? Did she think it most impractical to develop fondness at a time such as this?

_Why_ was it really?

Her eyelids fluttered down.

"Because he is a commoner bastard."

Ceridwen felt ridiculous even when she spoke the words, and yet they were true. Ever since she had turned fourteen and young lads and noblemen had suddenly thrown themselves at her right and left, her brain had been hardwired not to let anyone use her as a stepping stone for higher rank. Never to give honors only to receive none in return. Never to…_disgrace_ herself by marrying below her station.

"See that's the problem with you sodding tall folk." Oghren said. "There's just too damn many of you. All this …choice makes you a bunch of whiners. 'That's not the right one', 'That's not suitable', oooh! Waste of time."

Ceridwen looked at him, uncomprehending. "Your people are the one with a caste system."

"Yeah. Doesn't keep a nobleman from rutting with a duster, though. And if she's got another nobleman in the oven afterwards, we dwarves just say 'the more, the merrier'."

"Unless the babe's a girl, of course. Or a noblewoman suddenly gives birth to a duster instead." She pointed out sharply. Oghren shrugged.

"Didn't say it was sodding perfect, did I? Point still stands. You make the most of what you have. Sometimes it works and sometimes a Bronto shits on you."

Ceridwen felt very tempted to tell him that he was not exactly her expert of choice when it came to relationships, but she bit the thought down. It would be very petty to do.

Not to mention that he did have a point. What _was_ she trying to cling to? She wasn't exactly the Queen of Antiva these days, either. And Alistair had had her back ever since they embarked on this journey, despite his constant complains, he had made her laugh in the _Deep Roads_, the single most grim place in all Thedas, and he had shown her that there was always something left worth preserving. Worth protecting.

He thought that _she_, out of all people, was one of those things.

Wouldn't she have _liked_ to be courted by someone like him?

"I… am an idiot."

"Yep. Could've told you that, Warden." Oghren grinned at her and in a twisted sense, his words were almost comforting. "Always glad to help."

Ceridwen supposed she would have to…to make amends, apologize for her stand-offish behavior. However that was done. She wasn't exactly the expert at that sort of thing.

But somehow she would manage and keep going.

She straightened her back, flexing the muscles of her shoulders before they tired and ached. Their watch time should be over soon and she would have to go wake up Leliana and Sten. As she clambered up to her feet, Ceridwen looked back at Oghren and raised an eyebrow.

"You'll never tell anyone that we had this conversation, dwarf."

He just waved his bottle at her. "Ack, go away, human, and let a man drink in peace. Who'd listen to what a sodding drunkard of a dwarf has to say, anyway?"

She turned around, a small, hidden smirk on her face.

"_I_ would."

As she went towards Leliana's tent, Ceridwen brought the rose up to her face and breathed in some of its sweet scent. The smirk grew into a smile that reached her glistening eyes and the tears for her dead beloved finally found their silent release.

_A rare and wonderful thing, indeed._

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_A/N:And then when she was all proudly patting her shoulder, feeling all open-minded and stuff, he went and told her he's a somewhat of a prince. And then there was RAGE. xD Sorry, it's totally mean, but I absolutely love pressing 'I liked you. Now I don't even know who you are.' at Redcliff.  
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_So. Yeah. THIS IS SO FRIGGING LONG; OH MY GOD; WHAT IS THIS? The idea came to me, because I wanted to write something short about my favorite Warden's reaction to the rose scene and found it somewhat hilarious, yet awesome to have Oghren tell her to get over herself. I've come to love that dwarf, I really do. And of course where there's romance, there must be massive death and trauma. So in the end, this monster was born. Ya, apparently, even though I'm the kind of girly girl that makes tough tomboys twist in pain and vomit, teh fluff does not speak to me. _

_I find it frigging amusing that Oghren calls your Warden 'ugly' sometime when you speak with him. Because if you're a female human, everyone and their mother (and their mother) mentions constantly how beautiful/pretty you are, no matter where you're at. No kidding. But my Ceridwen didn't seem quite the catch anyhow. I made a point of choosing exactly what she would say and do in her playthrough, no meta-gaming involved, and it happened that Zevran did not flirt with her AT ALL. Like,** at all,** even though they became the best of friends. I didn't plan on romancing him, because she's not cool enough for him :D, but it was still totally baffling. _

_So here you have some of my beloved Warden-of-Failure's inner ramblings, for good or bad._

_It's unlikely someone's read through this story, but if you did, please tell me and I shall love you forever.  
_


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